Ron's back was against the wall and his hands were under Draco Malfoy's shirt. Ron's eyes were closed, but he knew that if he opened them, he'd see Draco watching. Draco always watched, eyes narrowed and resentful.
They met here almost every day, in an alcove behind a suit of armour that clanked and clucked and then gave up being horrified at last when Ron and Draco paid it no attention.
They met and one of them would lean against the other and push him back and they would suck each other's mouths in hot, slippery kisses that went on for five minutes at a time.
It was nothing, Ron told himself every day: every morning when he woke up, every afternoon when he left the alcove, sweating, throbbing, heading for the bath. Every night when he lay in bed curled up into himself. It was just kissing.
It was just kissing, he told himself when Draco's tongue slipped past Ron's lips and made Ron's mouth water. Just a bit of fun, when Ron slid his fingers over Draco's arms, chest, waist, searching for a patch of skin to touch. Just fooling about, when Draco left a livid mark on Ron's neck that Ron couldn't charm away.
It was nothing.
They didn't talk and they didn't write and they didn't look at each other in the Great Hall.
They just kissed. Draco's knee was between Ron's legs and his hand was on Ron's neck, twisting in Ron's hair. Ron stroked Draco's back, both hands up and down, over bare skin.
Draco tasted like spearmint and Ron didn't like it. Draco's mouth was cold and tingly and different. Why had Draco done that? Ron opened his eyes. Draco's eyes were closed and he sighed when Ron pulled him closer.
It was nothing.